Fortress Bride (on temporary hiatus)
by Zhe-Ubermensch
Summary: Theodora is, by far, the most beautiful woman in the whole world, and, luckily for Bernhard, she's all his. But when he leaves to practice medicine and is killed, the heartbroken girl will give in to a war-hungry prince and become his bride. But when she is kidnapped, everything she'd taken for granted is flushed away, and a new adventure unfolds- one she cannot begin to fathom.
1. Changes and Alterations

**This chapter only sets up for the story, because there is so much to alter to make everything fit and make sense, and to maintain a good balance between William Goldman's universe and my own TF2 universe. This chapter describes who is who, alterations to the original script, and others. You may skip this if you want, but I don't recommend it.**

* * *

><p>This is my Tf2 <em>Princess Bride<em> AU, but the characters are those based from a previous story of mine, _A Bird in the Hand, Two in the Cage_. Some of the characters used may be from _both_ teams. Some characters may have non-canon names. I'll leave a character list here so you know who's who:

_Theodora_- **Buttercup**  
><em>RED Medic<em> (Bernhard)- **Westley**  
><em>RED Spy<em> (Abel Maisonneuve Sauvage)- **Inigo Montoya**  
><em>RED Heavy<em> (Misha)- **Fezzik**  
><em>RED Engineer<em> (Mack Intosche)- **Miracle Max**  
><em>RED Demoma<em>n (Tavish DeGroot)- **Dread Pirate Roberts**  
><em>Grey Mann<em>- **Vizzini**  
><em>Administrator<em> (Queen Helen)- **Queen Bella**  
><em>(King) Blutarch<em>- **King Lotharon**  
><em>Miss Pauling<em> (Paula)- **Valerie**  
><em>BLU Pyro<em>- **the Albino**  
><em>BLU Soldier<em> (Prince Rhyfel)- **Prince Humperdink**  
><em>BLU Sniper<em> (Count Anghenfil)- **Count Rugen**  
><em>BLU Scout<em> (Jason)- **Yellin**  
><em>(Princess) Zhana<em>- **Princess Noreena**

That covers all the **named** characters, and their name changes. Feel free to keep this chapter open in a new tab if you get confused.

* * *

><p>Just like in Goldman's edition, I, too, will be cutting in at times to make notes here and there, as a sort of more interesting way to let the readers in on the writing process.<br>I plan to stick more closely to the book's events rather than the movie, because the movie left out a few things that I found rather interesting and sometimes even valuable to plot development.  
>This is going to be a little more NSFWish. I don't THINK there will be sex, but that may change. For certain, there will be descriptions of nudity, gore, intense death sequences, swearing, abuse (emotional and physical), homosexuals, drunkards, thoughts of suicide, depression, and (possible) almost-rape.<p>

* * *

><p>The wonderful thing about Alternate Universes is that you can tweak them a bit to fit your image of what the geography and other situations may hold. Therefor, here are the slight alterations I've made to the Princess Bride universe in lieu of the New Mexican mercenaries invading the place:<p>

*Medic won't be as strong and independent as Westley. He can still do all the same things, but is more heartbroken/elated at the things Teddy says and does.  
>*Heavy will not be as dense and simple as Fezzik was.<br>*Spy may be _more_ emotional than Inigo.  
>*Sniper, as Count Rugen, won't be nearly as focused on the concept of pain, rather just enjoying the fact that he's breaking a man from the outside-in.<br>*Sniper does not have six fingers, but the parallel scar on his cheek and nose which Spy gave him is much more prominent, and black.  
>*Spy is fighting for a lost love rather than his father, but the pain is just as strong in his heart.<br>*Engineer, as Max, will be more calm in his procedures, but will still have that sense of deception and bitterness.  
>*The Imaginary kingdom is now Rosalba.<br>*The Zoo of Death is now a Gauntlet of Death. _Maybe_ I'll put a bear in there, as a nod to the _Cold Day in Hell_ comic.  
>*The Cliffs of Insanity are the now Cliffs of Australia. Because why not?<br>*The torture device to be used on Medic is now a reverse Medigun that Sniper devised with the help of Pyro (who was reluctant…)  
>*The country Soldier wants to war with is now Canada. Because, again, why not?<br>*The giant rodents in the Fire Swamp are now Mutated Bread, as a nod to _Expiration Date_.

Still not sure what I'm going to do with the ending, whether I follow Goldman or not... but we'll see.  
><strong>And, on that note, I'll just leave this here for you all to contemplategive suggestions while I actually work on the story...**


	2. The Bride

_She never grows out her hair, _he thought to himself as he stared affectionately at his mistress in her window. It wasn't a bad length. In fact, it graced her features with a glow it couldn't have retained otherwise. _Hair the color of… of autumn, _he mused to himself. _Such a perfect gold. Men would be crazy _not _to buy a lock for the price of gold. _But most women's hair was longer. She brushed a stray strand back, and sighed as she stared down at her journal.

Oh, but Theodora could pull it off quite well.

She sensed someone was there, and glared at him. "Farmboy," she called from inside, "I thought I told you to mend the back gate. Go on now."

"As you vish."

It was all he ever said to her. He feared if he said anything else, his true feelings for her would be revealed accidentally, and he'd ruin everything. She'd make him leave, and he would _never _see that perfect face again.

He couldn't risk that, so he held his tongue, only speaking when given a command, and only saying those three words.

"As you vish."

And every day was like that. Theodora would ride her horse, or pick flowers in the nearby field, or ride into town and ignore the spiteful, jealous looks the other women gave her and buy herself a new dress for the season. And Bernhard always supported her, did the tasks he'd been assigned, "As you vish."

It was always as she wished. In the German's eyes, she deserved nothing less than perfection. She should never have to lift a finger. She should never have to overexert herself, so as to retain her young, pleasant beauty. All the village girls were jealous, all the men longed for her, married or not, but it wasn't in her interest to be married. Still, she turned heads.

So it wasn't a surprise when the Count of Rosalba rode by to take a look at the most beautiful woman in the world. Not a surprise at all. At least, not to him. To everyone else, the purpose of the visit was beyond comprehension, for a man of such high power to approach such a small, humble farm.

He arrived in a small progression of three soldiers and a well-decorated carriage toting him along. All three soldiers dismounted their horses immediately after they'd stopped, and stood at full attention in front. The man of import inside emerged quickly after. He didn't want to be here any longer than he needed to be. Teddy glared from her window, wondering who the _hell _this guy was.

The Count was tall, and had a nicely trimmed head of hair. And thin. He was very, very thin, but something in his arms told of a strength that couldn't be judged merely by staring at him. However, it was strange to note that the man wore only half a mask, covering the upper left side of his face. However, no one was brave enough to question it, especially of a man of such esteemed power. He shrugged his shoulders in his cape, stretched. The farmboy was there to greet him straight away.

"May I help you, sir?" he inquired. "May I know your name?"

He replied tersely, "Count Anghenfil. People around here have been talkin' about yer cows. Says they're strong and healthy. I wanna know your secret."

Now this, of course, wasn't true, as he'd only stopped by to see if the rumors were true about the mistress of the land, but he wasn't about to let some measly servant man in on that knowledge. And, as if on cue, the mentioned woman emerged from the small house, expression cold and calculating. The Count shuddered in his boots, at both her complexion and her tone.

"Count Anghenfil, m'lady," the farmboy hummed. He wasn't shaken by her swift mood at all. He was quite comfortable with it, it was a familiar sight. As for the Count, his lip now trembled before the raw beauty before him. Such graceful curves, such piercing grey-blue eyes, such full lips, such feminine strength! The rumors were true. Theodora Sparks was, indeed, the perfect specimen.

He cleared his throat, realizing he'd been staring, and repeated, "There's been word spread that ya have the finest livestock in the land. Mind if I have a look at how your servant tends 'em?"

To be honest, Teddy had no clue if the cows were healthy or not. All she knew was that the farmboy took care of them, and that was it. So, having no interest one way or the other, she shrugged and said, "If it pleases you. Farmboy, take the count to see the bulls."

Her voice. Her voice was the sound of bells. No- _angels._ The Count stared again, and this time, the farmboy saw it. He couldn't miss it. His lips set in a straight line as jealousy boiled up inside of him, making his stomach churn. How _dare _this man so far older in age stare at her like eye candy. It was undignified. So lost was he in his sudden hatred that Teddy had to command him again.

He did not say 'as you vish'. He said, "Of course." and lead the Count without another word. The visit was short and tense, and after the woman was out of sight, the Count didn't seem interested anymore anyways.

He stared at the man's carriage long after it was out of sight, lest he should _dare _to return.

Later in the week, Theodora had gone into town to buy some more flowers for a garden she was building up. The farmboy had requested a day off, and she'd allowed it, but didn't actually expect to spot him across the way. She shrugged to herself and went back to her browsing.

But the _girl_.

There were petunias. Roses. Daffodils.

_They're __**talking**_.

Teddy glanced again.

The girl was pretty, no doubt, but Teddy immediately saw her as hideous. Those teeth were too white. Her hair was not dark enough. She's too thin. And the farmboy was _talking _to her. _**Laughing **_with her.

Something clenched uncomfortably in her throat.

How… how _dare _he.

And, very suddenly, Theodora ran away, and her mind was torn. She leapt on her horse and spurred it into a quick jog instantly. She had to get far away from those to _weirdos. _talking to each other. Laughing. Pfft. Surely, it wasn't any of _her _concern who the farmboy talked to. So, why did she care so _much_?

A quick ride always cleared her thoughts.

Tonight, it didn't.

In her room, she paced, trying to piece it together, trying to find a logical explanation for why the _hell _she was so worked up over Farmboy and Whore _talking_.

Perhaps washing up would help her think. So she bathed, donned her nightgown, and laid in her bed.

They had been _talking_.

That girl was _interested _in _her _farmboy!

But… why? There wasn't anything special about the farmboy. It certainly couldn't have been that adorable cowlick at the center of his head. It couldn't have been those jet-black locks. And certainly, she hadn't seen his beautiful, blue grey eyes. Those diamond eyes. And his broad chest and muscles weren't worth _any _sort of attention. It just came from natural labor. He didn't _slave _over his arms. At least, Teddy didn't _think _so.

She sat up. It had to be his glasses. There was a glare, and that was why the other girl was staring so intently at him, to not seem rude because of the glare.

Girls didn't stare at boys that way because of glare, and Theodora knew it very well.

"Damn, damn damn damn," she hissed. She thrashed. She leapt out of bed, storming. She stormed in the dark of dusk all the way to the farm boy's hovel, stormed with a candle clutched in her hand, stormed even when sharp weeds and rocks pierced her toes and heel, stormed all the way to his door, then…

Hesitated.

Why was she even _doing _this? It wasn't her business who the farmboy talked to.

No. It was.

_Rat-a-tatt-tatt._

He was at the door in a second. His chest was bare, he wore only night bottoms, his glasses were gone. Theodora swallowed, stared.

He waited patiently for her commands. She steeled herself.

"I…" she stammered. "I am, I was wondering-"

"Und you vore no shoes? You ah bleeding."

He took her hand and pulled her inside before she could protest, tutting disapprovingly at the blood he would have to clean later. It wasn't much, but a clean hovel was a happy hovel. He pushed her back to lie on his cot- one leg of the bed was propped up with medicinal books and journals. Then he retreated to a cupboard and took some gauze and disinfectant, then returned to the foot of the bed.

"Down," he commanded, and pushed her back to lie down. Then he set to work, cleaning her feet gently of any dirt or rocks. His tone surprised her; the farmboy had never been so commanding before, so certain. He seemed to be in his element.

"Farmboy."

He glanced up from his work, not stopping. She tired to sit up, but was forced down again.

"_Nein, _let me heal you." Then the disinfectant made contact, and she cried out with the pain. "You shouldn't haff come here vithout shoes."

"You look too good," Theodora blurted out before she could stop herself.

The farmboy ceased his ministrations, surprised.

"Vhat do you mean?"

"I think I love you," she continued, "because I became so jealous when I saw you talking to that other girl in the village. I don't even know who she was or how you knew her or if you were just passing by and decided to engage in light conversation, the answer is beyond me, but it made me so worried and scared, and all night I've been tossing and turning overthinking it, and that's why I came out here is to talk to you about that girl in the village and ask how you know her and what your relation is to her because I _want _you, Bernhard. That's your name, right? Bernhard, Bernhard, Bernhard, I think I love you Bernhard, even though I never show it, I do truly think I've fallen for you, and quite hard for that fact."

"Vha-"

"There's a hardness in your eyes, like a diamond, but you already knew that, right? You had to have, because they're like an enchantment, and all I can do now even as I ramble to you is stare at those diamond eyes. Those eyes can tell me to do _anything, _do you want me to crawl on my knees through glass, Bernhard? I'll crawl through glass on my knees. Do you want me to pleasure you for endless nights and days until my back and ass and mouth cannot take anymore? I will do it, I will kneel for you-"

Bernhard slapped her. Hard. It ended her rant short. The rest of the words in her throat tumbled back down, the energy and bravery to say those things _gone_. He was staring at her with cold, relentless eyes, but there was _something _in them that screamed of joy as he continued to bandage her feet.

When he was finished, he kissed each big toe tenderly.

"Do not mention zhat girl in zhe village. She only supplies me vith my books. I would go _maaaadd _if you zhought zhere was anyzhing more und left me to my own devices. I would _be _mad to accept her advances over simply seeing your face every morning. Because you ah a goddess, Theodora."

She was stunned frozen. Bernhard continued.

"I vould _die _for you zhis very moment for no ozher reason zhan to follow your command. I vould _zhrow _myself into Santan's arms and kiss his fiery cheek to get a _smirk _out of zhat perfect face. If I could physically show how much I vould sacrifice for you, I vould cut out _mein _own heart and give it to a messenger dove to deliver to you. All zhese years I haff labored under your arm und burned und froze in zhis hovel because I could not _stand _to be more zhan a mile avay from you at any given point in time. I haff kept my body strong only to one day carry you zhrough zhe door to our bedroom vhere ve vill consumate our love. I haff strayed from drinking only to keep my head clear, and all other moments of my days vere filled vith _only _zhe mere zhought of you. I vake vith your image, vork vith your image, and sleep vith your image dancing in _mein_ eyelids, _taunting _me."

She kicked his shoulder, and he reeled back with a grunt. His tirade had been stopped.

But a very _different _type of tirade was about to begin.

Then, Theodora was on the floor with him. No apology for her actions. Just her lips crashing against his, just her hands roaming the broad expanse of that muscular chest. No protest from Bernhard. Just the reciprocation of her attentions, just his hands holding her body tightly against his. She sat up on his lap, fondling one of her breasts.

"Am I taunting you _now_?" she grinned.

He was on her in a second.

* * *

><p>Two days later, she sat solemnly in her house, alone. Bernhard had left for America, to build up a fortune and help them start a life in the new country. He had said that she would be better off remaining in Rosalba until he had accumulated enough money to "properly" support them both. Reluctantly, Theodora agreed. Only two months later, she received word that Bernhard's ship to America had been intercepted by the Dread Pirate DeGroot. He was a pirate notorious for leaving no survivors whenever he captured a ship.<p>

Teddy was devastated. The messenger who had brought her the news expressed his condolences, then left.

Quietly, she locked herself in her room. For two days and two nights, she did not eat nor drink nor sleep, so lost was she in her wallowing sorrow. She wept. She screamed. By the end of the first day, her voice was gone. At the end of the second day, her common sense was gone.

With Bernhard gone, her only goal was to drive others mad for her affections, only to turn them down, as a sick, twisted way to show her devotion to her deceased lover. She cleaned her face, hair, neck, ears, anything that she had neglected before, made sure there was never a speck of sand where it shouldn't be.

Immediately, even with her shorter than usual hair, her new stunning beauty shot her up the ranks. Men wept at her feet, on occasion, for her to _glance _at them, but that was before the village knew of her great loss. When the villagers asked her what she was going to do about her loss, she simply replied, "Nothing out of the ordinary. Only that I swear on my father's grave that I will never love again anyone like I loved him."

And that was true.


	3. The Prince

Prince Rhyfel of Rosalba was the set of a perfect man, although a bit short and a little more round than most would prefer, but only barely. He had the servants beat on his chest constantly with the might of their main, only for the sole purpose of making his front concrete hard. Amd, had he wanted to go into dancing, his two left feet (literally, he had two left feet. It was a birth defect.) would have failed him at every turn, though he'd trained his body to cope with the odd deformity.

Luckily for him, dance was not anywhere near the top of his bucket list. But unfortunately for his family, neither was becoming king of his country. The Prince much rather would spend his days in war, but, considering that war was terrible and most opposed it, he had to make due with hunting.

War was his favorite. Hunting was a placeholder.

So, to quell his thirst for blood, Rhyfel spent every spare moment of his day killing anything that moved that wouldn't get him in trouble with his own soldiers. That included anything that wasn't human. Massive elephants? On the list, for sure. He snapped their necks like twigs. But Rhyfel also enjoyed the suffering of little animals- save for Raccoons. Something about Raccoons mesmerized him, so he left them alone to live their lives. But other small, helpless creatures were stalked for days by this terrifying man, until they dropped from exhaustion or the Prince grew bored and took their lives.

He was the reckoning of all living things. He'd traveled the world, boasting of his country's grandeur and dominion over all others. But his country worried every time he left, though they all thought they'd be better off with a more, ahem, "sane" prince. But Rhyfel was all they had, and if his father died while he was abroad, that would spell disaster for the country. He knew that, one day, he would have to select a bride to produce him an heir for the day that he died as well, so his excursions abroad ceased.

And then he built the Gauntlet of Death. He built it with Anghenfil, and animals from all over the world were summoned and brought here only for his entertainment. They were kept in peak condition by the albino that worked there, and again and again, Prince Rhyfel would break them down, and the albino would restore them. It was an endless cycle of hunting and nursing. It was difficult, however, to keep the animals healthy, because the chamber of death was _underground_, so they saw little of the sun that most of them needed to thrive. On different levels there were different attributes of creatures, but the fifth level was the Prince's favorite.

It was empty. Only in the center was a dark, large cage, made for the strongest creature, a creature worth reckoning.

He had yet to find it, and it was highly unlikely he ever would. But he was an optimist with that sort of thing, so the cage was left empty. Waiting.

* * *

><p>"Oi!" Count Anghenfil called from the top of the stairs. "Oi! Rhyfel! Got some news for ya!"<p>

The Prince was grappling with a large bear, arms around its neck, strangling the life out of it slowly, but surely. He hissed at the sudden intrusion and yelled up from his prey, "Make it wait! I'm choking this Commie bastard's brains out!"

Anghenfil rubbed the bridge of his nose. "It's on matters of your _country, _which you value so _highly_," he mentioned sarcastically. "It _can't _wait."

C

R

A

C

K

!

The bear fell dead, quiet and still and broken. The Prince leapt over the corpse, growling under his breath, as he mounted the ladder out of the arena he'd been using. "What's so damn important that you gotta make me kill my twenty-third favorite bear? He was ready to give up."

"Do ya want it plain an' simple, or sugarcoated?"

"Just give it to me."

"You're dad's facin' Death in the teeth," Count Anghenfil grumbled. Rhyfel grumbled along with him.

"That means I gotta find some pretty lady to gimme a kid. Damnit."

He stomped his way to the council room of the castle, where his parents awaited him. Count Anghenfil followed, and his aging father, King Blutarch and step-mother, Queen Helen.

Queen Helen was tall, thin, and not well aged, and her skin was as pale as snow. Even still, she was looked up to by the people of the kingdom as a woman who got things done, and wasn't afraid to sway her husband's opinion using rather extreme means. She'd been married to the king just a little before he began losing his head of hair. Rhyfel only knew of "evil" step-mothers, and so he referred to her as such, but she hardly minded.

He sat rather clumsily in a chair and ground out, "Alright, let's get this over with and find me a woman."

King Blutarch, old and wrinkly as a raisin, repeated his son. "Yes, I agree. I don't have much longer, and I'll be _damned _if I don't see my son marry before my heart stops pounding."

"Also, agreed," Queen Helen echoed. "We must find you a wife of equal importance, or almost equal.

"Then it'll have to be that one lady across the Rosalba Strait. She still alive?"

"Alive and well," his step-mother replied.

"Does she hunt?"

"I'm not certain, but she does have a well-built figure. Marbelish skin, rose lips, dark blue eyes."

"Invite her over then," Rhyfel replied. "Make up some sort of excuse, like state occasions or something."

Queen Helen said, "I will leave immediately with an invitation."

* * *

><p><em>So, in Morgenstern's version of the story, there are, like, seventy two pages of traveling that he "supposedly" left out, because he claims that he didn't write <em>The Princess Bride. _We all know by now that's a crock of shit. Well, I certainly don't want to write about that. That'd be boring as hell. So I'll sum it up. Helen went to Canada, invited the princess over (Zhana) and they came back together. Rhyfel (Soldier) was immediately in love, not knowing that she was from another country._

* * *

><p>There were too many guests attending the banquet of state affairs for them all to dine in the dining hall, so they were instead sent to the Great Hall of Blutarch's castle. Tables were pushed together in the enourmous hall to form a massive banquet table<p>

At first, things seemed to be going quite well. The two nations were getting along just fine, most avoiding the topic of actually _being _two separate nations, for the sake of the prince, who had no clue. Then, a minute later- _only _a minute later- they were almost at war.

Rhyfel and Zhana had been having a lovely conversation- he paid no mind to her accent- and he found himself falling for the lovely woman, though she was larger than he, and that was typically not well received by the people.

Then, a representative from Canada stumbled in, blubbering, apologizing for being late, and mistakenly mentioned that they were, in fact, a different country, after all, as an excuse for his lateness.

Prince Rhyfel exploded, knocking over candles setting the room aflame. Princess Zhana was up and running with the rest of the room within seconds of that as Rhyfel roared and raved.

"Commie bastards! That's right! Run! Run far, far away!"

He stormed to the balcony to watch the chaos unfold, the masses undulate together as they tried to avoid the ashes and flames that others were so desperately trying to contain.

The Queen caught up to him, placing a gentle, but annoyed hand on his shoulder.

"That was uncalled for, Rhyfel," she scolded.

"I refuse to be involved with the enemy!" he screeched, "Never in a million years!"

"No one would have cared."

"_I _would have cared! I could almost _smell _the communism radiating off of her!"

"We could have made _peace _with them!" the Queen fretted, half to her son and half to Count Anghenfil, who had joined them in spectating the fire.

"Peace is for the weak and frail!" Rhyfel pounded on the railing. "I would have gone to war with them eventually anyways! I need a wife who _isn't _an asshole!"

"Rhyfel!" Queen Helen objected.

"I'll marry _anyone _who isn't a commie! _Anyone!_"

An idea was sparked in Count Anghenfil, as he recalled a beautiful woman he had spied not long ago. "Anyone, you say?"

"Anyone."

"Even if she is a common girl?"

"Why not?" Rhyfel huffed.

"She cannot hunt," Anghenfil warned.

"That doesn't matter at this point. I just want a pretty wife, someone everyone will look at and think, 'Wow, that Rhyfel must be a pretty fantastic guy to have a wife like that'. So, what are you waiting for!? Send out the order!"

Anghenfil only smiled.

"I know just the girl."

* * *

><p>They stared down at the woman's farm from hilltop at the break of dawn, waiting for the sun to help them see this 'perfect' woman.<p>

"She's a milkmaid of sorts," the Count mentioned.

"And that makes her pretty?" the Prince questioned.

"Nah, just thought it was worth mentioning, so you're not too highly expectant of perfection. Yeah, she's pretty, but a bit rugged the last time I saw her. Easily fixed up, I say, just run a comb through her hair."

"People might laugh that a commoner was the best I could do," Rhyfel pondered.

"They won't question it if they see her face. She'll steal the words right out of their mouths."

Rhyfel sighed. "Well, we've come this far. I guess we'll wa-" his words were stolen right out of his mouth, just as the Count promised. "I'll take her."

Theodora rode slowly below them on her horse.

"No one's gonna laugh at that," Anghenfil promised.

"I'll take her _now_," the Prince corrected himself. He steered his horse down the hill, and when Theodora saw them, she just looked the horse and its rider over slowly and tiredly.

"I'm your prince. You're gonna marry me."

"No," Theodora blandly stated.

"You don't have a choice," Rhyfel sneered.

"I just did."

"Then I'll kill you."

"Then kill me, right here, right now."

Rhyfel was baffled. "I'm the Prince of Rosalba. How could you refuse me? How would you rather be dead?"

Theodora folded her arms, then slid down from her horse. "Marriage involves love, and I don't love anymore. That went pretty badly last time I tried."

Rhyfel blew out of his lips impatiently, desperately trying to keep his composure. "Well, you don't have to love me to be my wife. I just need a kid- a son- to take on my throne after me. And, of course, I need a wife to do that. There's always gotta be one son ready to take up the throne at any time. Right now, that's me. Who will take over when I'm gone too? So your deal is, you can either marry me and be the richest and most powerful woman in the country, or I can snap your neck right here and now, which I'd rather not.

Defeated, Teddy took one last glance around her farm, then reiterated, "I will never love you. Ever."

"I wouldn't care if it meant owning the whole world."

"Fine then. Let's marry."


	4. The Kidnapping, part 1

It was three years later.

Three years later, and Rosalba Square was filled near to bursting with eager inhabitants, patiently waiting for their new princess to be revealed to them, Princess Theodora of Teufort. Some had been waiting almost two days for this day, but there were fewer than a thousand. Now, at the reckoning hour, people from all over the world had gathered to see this woman's supposed beauty. The rumors had been blown out of proportion, but no one would be disappointed.

A hush fell over the crowd as Prince Rhyfel stomped into view from his tower above, quicker than any crowd ever had before in recorded history.

"Subjects of Rosalba!" he cried to the massive swell of bodies below, "it is well known among the people that my father's health is not at a superb stage, but what can we do? He's lived a full, happy, prosperous life. But that is not today's focus. Our focus is on what to do after he passes, and that includes producing another male heir to the throne."

Yes, the crowd murmured to themselves. They were going to see the princess, it was certain.

"Our country has prospered and thrived for five hundred years- well, ah, almost. In three months, Rosalba will reach half of a thousand years. In honor of the momentous occasion, I will wed to Theodora of Teufort that evening. My fellow people, behold!" and he made a grand, sweeping gesture with his entire body. The door behind him opened, and Theodora glided forward next to the prince.

There was no utterance from the audience, only silent reverence.

She was now twenty six, quite different from the smaller twenty three year old mourner from only three years ago. Her time in the castle had dinged out the dents in her appearance, slimmed her in some places and fattened her in others. Her golden hair was far past her shoulders now (her hair grew out fairly quick, and Rhyfel had convinced her to grow out her boy-short hair, for the sake of the people) and her skin had tanned slightly, so that she wasn't too much a glow of pure white. Still, she radiated warmth and seemed to be an angel fallen from heaven.

Prince Rhyfel grasped her small hand in his more than twice as big palm, and held her arm, and the people erupted into cheers and jubilation.

"Good, that's finally over with. Back inside, cupcake," he grunted. Theodora wrenched her hand out of his, and he had to swallow the growl in his throat.

"These people have been waiting to see me for _weeks,_" she exaggerated. "They deserve to see me up close."

"They're _commoners,_" Rhyfel complained. "It is unlike the royalty of Rosalba to walk among the people unless completely unavoidable."

She was hurt at this statement, and made it plain in her expression.

"I was once one of them, Rhyfel. I know what they're like. They're not going to hurt me."

And, with as often as they do, Theodora won the argument. She vanished back into the castle, then reemerged on the front steps a minute later. With a deep breath and a hollow sigh, she spread her arms wide and begun to walk among the subjects soon to be hers.

They parted like the Red Sea for Moses, quiet and in awe and giving. She circled the square twice, three times, before she returned to the castle steps, and smiled, and waved. The people were utterly _mesmerized_. And many were infatuated, many were jealous, many were questioning her merits as queen, and three, in the middle of the crowd, were plotting to kill her.

There's always at least one person who plots the downfall of some royal figure, no matter how wholesome and loved they are. Though she was once a commoner herself, Theodora was no exception from this rule of life.

But, of course, no one had warned her of such an event. So she grinned, and laughed, though her heart wasn't in it, and let the people touch her and rain praises down on her. Had she been told her killers were but a step away, she would have laughed, and rolled her eyes.

Still, the danger lurked.

And, even more formidable and threatening-

-in the church across the square-

-in the highest tower-

-in the darkest corner, with only the doves acknowledging him-

-the Plague Doctor watched.

He was all dressed in black, save for his mask, which had an outline of red, and his flashing silver sword. But the most startling aspect of him were his eyes.

They looked hungry for blood, a deep, grey-blue that pierced into the heart of the princess, heart thumping madly as he devised his plot to take her as his own...

* * *

><p>Theodora spurred her horse to ride faster than usual, aching to get away from the great castle and do some thinking in the serenity of the wilderness rather than the fake security of stone walls. Every day, she rode her horse to the edge of the river between them and Canada, and rested on the edge to think.<p>

Today, it seemed as though the trees were reaching to grab at her, to hold her back from impending danger, but she did not heed their warnings, and rode on, despite some minor scratches and tears to herself and her dress.

She only had a little time left to be _herself, _before she was thrust into the responsibilities and scrutiny of a princess, and after that, a queen. It was a rather rough reality to let sink in, considering she much rather enjoyed her freedom.

And then there was that problem about her relationship with Rhyfel. You would think. after three years of knowing someone, you would really be able to decide whether you liked them or not. Well, Prince Rhyfel was always battling his creatures in the Gauntlet of Death: how _could _she have formed a well educated decision?

Even so, the idea of unimaginable wealth and power didn't sit well with her either. She'd been just as happy with her small farm back in the countryside. Even her new-found beauty, which everyone around her raved about, didn't do much for her.

It just wasn't the same without something to care about, or love.

* * *

><p>"The hell…?" Theodora whispered to herself. She halted her horse, staring down at the three men, all unevenly matched, on the path in front of her.<p>

The man in the middle was small, and frail, and looked as if he could snap at any minute if the wind blew too hard in any direction. Still, though, he stood straight and tall, wispy strands of white hair bending as he crept towards her. The others had not moved from their spot. The second man wore a red mask that covered all of his head, save for his eyes and his thin, set mouth. He stood as straight and confident as the glinting metal at his hip. The third man, bald, save for a bit of stubble around his jaw and mouth, was enormous, taller than her horse.

The first man grinned, a gentle, angelic smile making his eyes twinkle. "Excuse me, miss, but we could use some direction."

"Yeah?" Theodora replied tersely.

"I'm afraid we've gotten lost during the course of our travel," the small man said. "It's going to be dark soon. Is there a village nearby for us to stop and rest at, so we can regain our wits?"

Theodora shook her head. "You wouldn't make it anywhere close to a village before the sun set, I'm afraid."

The man's smile suddenly turned fierce, and feral. "Then no one will hear you cry for help!" and he leapt towards her face with frightening agility.

And for Theodora, that was it. Lights out. She didn't feel a thing as she slipped under, as the small man's hands grasped her neck just so to prevent any pain. She slipped from her horse, and the larger man caught her, and slung her over his shoulder.

Then, when she awoke, she was in a boat. She was wrapped tightly in a blanket, and the three men were pushing off from the shore, talking, thinking she was still unconscious. But the sounds of their conversation dissolved under the pounding of blood in her own ears.

"Should kill leetle princess now," the large man said.

The small old man grunted. "Less thinking, more working."

Something tore.

"What was that?" the tall man asked. His accent indicated he was of French descent.

"Canada's symbol," the old man explained. "I received it from a dead officer on the frontier."

"But do not we just-" the large man began. Theodora now knew he was Russian.

"If she's not dead anywhere _near _to Canada, we won't get paid the rest of our Australium. I don't see what's so difficult to understand about that."

The Russian sagged. "Could cause trouble if we don't kill her now," he pointed out. "People are thinking I am not smart man only because I do not speak good English."

The old man scoffed at this. "It's not your English that makes people think you're an idiot, it's that you _are _an idiot." The Russian had no time to reply before there was the flapping of sails, a command of "watch your heads", and then the boat was off. The old man spoke again.

"We will be given the rest of the Australium if this war is successfully started. Then I'll get what I need, and we'll be getting work for as long as we need it."

The Frenchman spoke next.

"This is highly treasonous. I can hardly believe you accepted this task. Even if I was on the brink of death, I would have refused."

"I _need _this Australium," the old man countered.

"It is against my raising to bring harm to a woman."

"It happens all the time," the old man said. "Everyone dies eventually, it all ends up in the same place. Why should now make any difference from later?"

Theodora gulped.

"There would be less of a struggle if we gave her the excuse this was just for ransom," the Frenchman pointed out.

The Russian made a sound of approval. "Do not want to see pretty woman fret."

The old man laughed. "She's been awake this whole time, you idiots. She already knows everything."

Theodora didn't budge, though her brow furrowed in confusion. How did he know?

Neither the Russian nor Frenchman commented. They must have been used to this.

"We have perhaps an hour ahead of Rosalba's troops, should my calculations be correct," he continued. "After that hour, it should be another fifteen minutes to reach the Cliffs of Australia, and if we're lucky, the frontier of Canada just before dawn. We will kill her there, and hopefully, her body will still be warm by the time the Prince reaches-"

A splash in the water disturbed him from his thoughts, and when he whirled around, the blanket that had held the princess was empty, save for some droplets of water from the splash she had made. She had dove into the Rosalba Strait.

Immediately, she flailed her arms forward and kicked her legs to get away from the boat, though the water was dark in the night, and she couldn't see a thing. Behind her, the old man began screaming.

"Go get her!"

"I only dog paddle," the Russian explained helplessly.

"You still swim better than I do," the Frenchman pointed out.

"Bah, it doesn't matter," the old man said. "I can hear her, veer left."

Theodora silenced her paddling to the best of her ability.

"Where _is _she!?" the old man shrieked.

"Fear not," the Frenchman said. "If we cannot get her, then the sharks surely will."

They had to be joking, Theodora scoffed. But still, her heart pounded.

"Princess," the old man said, "You'd better hope you aren't menstruating, because once sharks smell blood, that's it for you. Oh, but what's this? A knife in my hand? Oh dear, I hope I don't accidentally cut myself and let my blood fall in the water!"

Theodora stopped swimming. She thought she could hear the swishing of tails in the strait.

"Come back, dear Princess," the old man crooned. "This is your last chance."

So what, she thought, he'll end up killing me anyways, what's the difference?

"The difference," the old man stated, (and Theodora thought _he really IS a mind reader_) "is that if you come back now, I guarantee on the little honor I have left that I will make sure your death is painless. The sharks can't promise that, can they?"

Theodora didn't budge, doubting the old man's resolve. That is, until he grunted with pain.

"He did it, Princess," the Russian called. "He cut his arm, and now its dripping into cup. There is already maybe two centimeters. Now leg is cut, cup is filling up."

Lies, she thought.

"And, here it comes," the old man grinned.

I'll never tell them.

There was the sound of liquid colliding with liquid, then silence. Then, the moon came out. There were no sharks. Just a quiet river and one very cold Princess of Rosalba. The Russian, when the boat drew near, scooped her up with one mighty paw, and then she was back in the boat. The Russian wrapped her in the blanket, muttering in his native tongue, before reverting to English.

"Don't catch cold," he said.

"What does it matter?" Theodora grunted. "You're killing me in the morning anyways."

The Russian shook his head. "Not me. Him." And he gestured to the old man.

"Shut up, idiot" the old man spat. The Russian obeyed. Theodora had had enough.

"He's not stupid," she spat right back. "You're not exactly all that you crack yourself up to be either. Throwing blood in the water, expecting sharks. It's a fresh water river-"

"It still worked, didn't it," the old man argued.

"The blood had nothing to do with you finding me. The moon came out."

The old man hit her.

"Don't," the Russian begged.

The tiny man stared back up bitterly. "Who are you now? Prince Charming? If you're such a hero, then fight me, your only friend."

The Russian recoiled. "Do not want to. Just don't hit leetle Princess. Hit me if you get angry. Not her."

The old man nodded, then went to the front of the boat. "If the moon hadn't come out, you would have been screaming either from fear or pain. There _are _freshwater sharks, but I wouldn't suspect a woman like you to know that." Then, he started, pointing ahead. "Ah, and we approach the Cliffs of Australia!"

The rocks loomed high into the night, thousands of feet. They were the most direct route between Rosalba and Canada, but no used them due to their impracticality. It's not that it was impossible to scale: however, only one man in the past century had been successful.

"Head in there," the old man told the Frenchman. "Your little stunt back there cost us some time, Princess," he scolded, "but I allotted us an hour of time, just in case of such a hitch. We should have another fifty minutes of safety before the troops catch up to this spot."

"No one could be following us yet?" the Frenchman asked. "Absolutely no one?"

"It would be inconceivable," the old man assured him. Then, "Why do you ask?"

"Well, no reason in particular," the Frenchman shrugged nonchalantly. "Perhaps, except for the fact that I glanced behind us and there's another ship."

They all whirled around. There was, in fact, another ship- well, a small boat, all black. It's captain was dressed in black as well.

The old man stared, then shrugged when the Frenchman nudged him curiously. The Frenchman snickered as he said, "Perhaps he is just a nighttime fisherman. Fish bite better at night, the predators can't see them then."

"No," the old man disagreed, the Frenchman's jest flying right over his head. "That's inconceivable. But no one in Rosalba should know yet what we've done. His position just makes him look like he's following us."

"He is gaining," the Russian said.

"Inconceivable! This is the fastest boat in the Rosalba Strait, everyone agreed so!"

"Then maybe his boat is not from this strait," the Russian pondered.

"Maybe it _is _the angle then," the Frenchman agreed.

Theodora stared at the massive black sail. The sight made her shudder. She felt as though its captain was staring _right at her. _Cold, and calculating, and cruel. She feared him more than her current captors, though she could not even clearly see him yet. And, though she could not place it, she felt as though she'd met him before. A long, long time ago.


	5. The Kidnapping, part 2

Before Theodora came back to her senses, the boat had been carefully docked at the side of the Cliffs of Australia, rocking noisily in the waves. The old man had already jumped out (he was surprisingly nimble for his age and build) and there was a rope in his hands. It reached all the way to the top of the Cliffs. The old man pulled at the rope. It held firm.

"Everyone out," he commanded. "If that black boat _is _following us, though highly unlikely, we'll cut the rope before he reaches the top. Come on, let's climb."

"You're kidding, right?" Theodora laughed. "I'm a looker, not a shower."

"Shut up." He turned to the Russian. "Sink it."

It only took a great swinging down of his hands to make the boat sink, starting at the middle, then vanishing under the surface of the water. The Frenchman tied Theodora's feet and hands, then slung her over the Russian's body. Then, he tied himself to his giant waist, then the old man clung around his shoulders.

"Up," he commanded.

The Russian wasted no time, one giant hand clinging over the other in a mesmerizing repetition of over and under. It was a long climb, but that didn't faze him in the slightest. Things like algebra and science flustered him, but his strengths lied in literature and strength itself. Nothing so far had proven too difficult for him. Nothing in the _world_. Nothing could stand up to Misha (which was, indeed, his name). His arms would maybe tingle in the morning, but nothing more. No aches, no soreness, nothing.

So, even with all of that weight around him, threatening to pull them all down to an increasingly painful death, Misha was content to climb. Up and up he climbed, over the water and rocks below. Two hundred feet down, eight hundred to go.

However, the old man was deathly afraid of heights, but he steeled his mind, thanks to years of training, and braved through the difficult task. The one thought that seemed to aid him the most was that of the man in black.

He pondered vigorously, the appearance of the mysterious man, seemingly from nowhere. There was no way that anyone could have been quick enough to follow them, and yet there he was. How? The old man pondered vigorously, but came to no definite conclusions. In spite of his fear, he glanced back down towards the water.

No, that man was still there, perhaps only a quarter of a mile off.

"Pick up the pace!" he hissed to Misha.

"Am I not fast?" the Russian asked.

"Not fast enough!"

Misha didn't reply to that bitter comment, only climbing faster.

"You're doing fine, Misha," the Frenchman complimented him.

"Thank you."

"Oh, and he's closing on the cliffs, should you all wonder."

Everyone knew who the Frenchman was talking about.

The four of them were six hundred feet up the Cliffs of Australia now, and gaining quickly.

"The other man is climbing the rope now," the Frenchman commented idly.

"I feel him," the Russian confirmed.

"Inconceivable!" the old man cried.

The Frenchman snapped, "You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"How fast is he?" Misha asked.

"Uncomfortably," came the reply. The old man glanced down again quickly, stomach churning. Sure enough, the other man had already cut off a hundred feet of distance between them.

"Ridiculous!" the old man shouted at Misha. "You claim you're strong, and yet he gains!"

"I have baggage," the Russian said calmly, though his face was beginning to contort angrily. "He has none. Less weight, more speed-"

"Excuses, excuses," he tsked impatiently. The man in black was closer by another hundred feet. But the top of the cliffs were in sight, perhaps just a hundred and fifty feet away. At this point, Theodora wasn't sure what she wanted to happen, whether they should fall, or make it, cut the rope or leave it, be caught by the other man, or killed by these three. She was sick with each thought, and didn't want to experience it ever again.

"Just a hundred feet left!" the old man screamed. "Come on!"

"He's over half way," the Frenchman added. He meant the man in black.

"Halfway to his fate, my comrade," the old man said. "We're cutting that rope once we get up there, and that will be the end of it." He laughed heartily, though it was a quiet laugh.

Then, they were there, at the top. The old man jumped off, then the Russian set the Princess down, and the Frenchman glanced back down over the cliffs.

"Leetle man in black deserves better fate than-"

The Russian was silenced at the sound of whizzing rope flying across the dirt, and over the ledge. The old man cackled loudly with laughter, dancing around and hollering and hooting until, with amazement, the Frenchman breathed, "_Mon dieu,_ he did it."

"Did what?!" the old man exclaimed.

"He's grabbed onto the rocks of the wall," he said. "There."

Sure enough, the man in black was still there, clutching the sheer rock face desperately perhaps two hundred feet below.

The three of them stared for a long time, before the old man scoffed and said, "He won't be able to climb this. He'll lose his grip sometime, and fall and die." Then, he looked at Theodora and said, "Would you like to see?" He snatched her up and brought her over, but she closed her eyes, turned away.

"We should move soon," the Frenchman stated. "Time is of the essence, you've said it yourself."

"But a death like this comes so very little often," the old man said. "It's worth waiting for, I think. Some sadistic people such as myself would love to see such a spectacle. I could make money off of this if I could stage it every week."

"This man is strong," Misha said. "I am not so sure he will fall."

"It won't be much longer now."

Then, the man in black started climbing. Slowly, but surely, he began to make his way up the Cliffs of Australia, deemed impossible to climb, but was now being accomplished.

"Inconceivable!"

"Shut _up!" _the Frenchman hissed. "You do not know how to use that word properly! If such things as this man has done were truly 'inconceivable' as you claim them to be, then his boat would not have gained on us, he would not have even been following us, and he would not have climbed after us. Now, see how he rises!"

The man in question was now fifteen feet higher, fifteen feet farther from death, or fifteen feet closer, depending on one's outlook of the situation.

"He must die!" the old man seethed. "One of you must remain to silence this fiend and make certain that he does not see where we go."

Misha cracked his fists, but the old man held him back.

"I need _you _to carry the Princess. You're coming with me." Then, he turned to the Frenchman. "We'll be heading towards Canada. When he is dead, meet us."

The Frenchman nodded, then took a pipe from a pocket in his clothes, took a bit of tobacco, and lit it, puffing patiently. The old man hobbled away, and the Russian threw Theodora over his back. "Catch up quickly." he grunted.

"Have you any doubt?" the Frenchman chuckled. "_Adieu, monsieur _Misha."

"_До Свидания, _Abel." Then he was gone, and Abel was alone. He knelt at the edge of the cliffs to observe the man in black's painful climb, as he was still quite a ways away. He was still close enough for Abel to see that he was masked with that which looked somewhat like a Plague Doctor's mask, dark black with trimmings of red. Perhaps he was another outlaw like himself, Abel thought. It was a shame, then, that he had to kill him. But he reasoned with himself that someone, someday, would kill him without mercy and no one would stop to mourn _his _death.

He leapt to his feet, ready for action. Except the man in black was still many feet away.

There was nothing to do but wait. So to pass the time, from the scabbard at his side, the Frenchman produced the one thing he had that was worth possessing.

The large handled Kukuri.

It was simple, but had a gleam that only the refined could appreciate. Abel fondled it lovingly, and thought back to the day it became his...

* * *

><p><strong>Abel<strong>

France was a small country at the time of Abel's great loss, but he did abide in a comfortably large village The land was flat, however, and there were not many trees, but the air was fresh and clear, and made it habitable and desirable land therefore. There was plenty of bread, but not much else, and temperatures varied widely from day to night.

Abel was always full, but had no connection to his siblings, and his parents had abandoned him when he was sixteen due to his sexual preferences.

He couldn't have been more content. That was all because of his lover, Rene, who was always smiling, despite his harsh upbringing and time spent on the streets as an orphan and criminal.

Abel loved him wholly, and Rene loved him back with just as much affection, if not more. They would undoubtedly die for one another without a second thought, should no other way come to mind.

They were satisfied, until the the Kukuri literally split them apart.

Rene had found it at the side of the road next to a mutilated corpse, and his robbing, thieving tendencies urged him to take it for himself. It was a fine weapon, though it was one he would never use, as he and his lover would duel with typical fencing swords. He sought out to improve the weapon far beyond what it already was, encrusting the awkwardly large hilt with gems and frillings of all sorts and designs, even carving, in Latin, on the blade itself, "Victory in happiness, happiness in victory."

It fit wonderfully above the mantlepiece.

"True art, _mon cher,_" Abel complimented his tall partner.

That was all before the nobleman arrived. The nobleman with the black scar.

It was Abel who answered the door, and took the man's features into account. "May I be of service?" he inquired.

"Maybe, mate," the nobleman said without making eye contact. His gaze was fastened on the Kukuri within. "Where'dya find that knoife?"

"It was given to me," he partially lied. "I did not find it. It was a gift."

"A beauty of a gift, there," he said. "I lost mine a bit back. How much would you part with it for?"

"It is not for sale," Abel said. "I would not squander something so beautiful to one who cannot just have his own crafted."

The nobleman stared angrily.

"You don't wanna cross me, mate," he growled.

"It is _not _for sale," Rene emphasised, entering the doorway himself. "I am the one who gifted it to him. Therefore, it is rightfully mine, so I decide what to do with the weapon."

"And where did _you _foind it?"

"I crafted it myself. If you would like, I am certain I could make something similar for you."

Suddenly, the nobleman forced himself in, marching towards the sword. "Oi'm not a fool. Oi know that is my sword that you have redesigned, and Oi want it back."

"You have no proof!" Abel shouted, marching right after him. Rene darted ahead, seemingly sensing the danger of his lover's actions.

"The sword belongs to Abel, _monsieur,_" he said as calmly as possible. "If it truly is yours, you abandoned it. It is no longer yours. It is forever his. Good-bye."

"You are a peasant fool, and Oi want the Kukuri," the nobleman hissed.

"You are a thief and liar, and I pity your large ego!" Rene spat.

The nobleman's _other _Kukuri went straight through his heart like a toothpick through butter. It was shredded, torn to pieces, broken.

Abel screamed, falling to his knees as his lover fell dead. He could not believe it. This was a nightmare, and he would wake up to Rene petting his face, whispering soft endearments. This was a nightmare. It was not real.

The village heard. The nobleman shoved his way past them all. They could do nothing, as he was a nobleman, and he passed unhindered.

"Monster!"

The nobleman turned.

"Bushman!"

Abel stood panting and screaming, holding Rene's Kukuri, repeating himself. "Monster. Bushman. _Animal_."

"Hold 'im back before someone gets hurt," the nobleman commanded the crowd.

Abel bolted in front of him, blocking his path, wielding the large weapon with both hands, as he'd never used it before. "I, Abel Maisonneuve Sauvage, do challenge you, monster, Bushman, killer, filthy jarman, fool, to battle."

"Move, stick!"

"This 'stick' is one hundred and thirty and a pound, and he stays!"

"Piss off!" the noble cried.

"_**NO!**_" Abel screamed.

The nobleman drew his Kukri.

"I dedicate your death to _mon amour, mon cher_. Begin!"

It was hardly a match. He was cut from right shoulder to left hip with the nobleman's blade, and fell on his back, and watched the world turn white. After he healed, he left the village for the first and last time in his life.

"I cannot remain," he explained to his friends. "I failed my love, and I cannot remain where everything reminds me of him."

And for five years, he trained to control that sword that had caused his lover's death. And when he was proficient with the weapon to beat the best in the world, he began his search for the man with the black scar. And when he found him, he said, "My name is Abel Maisonneuve Sauvage. You killed my love. Prepare to die." And then he dueled.

At least, that's what he imagined would happen. But he could not find him anywhere. Five more years got him nowhere, and he was then in his mid thirties. He searched Germany and Switzerland and Spain, all in vain.

He began to smoke, and drink. Rarely, at first, but then it became common, and was difficult to go a day without at least one glass or smoke.

At forty, he ceased his search. He became lame, did nothing. And that is how the old man found him. At first, the little man supplied the tall Frenchman with even stronger drink, but then began to convince him to stop that nasty habit. He wanted his swiftness for his crew, which, at the time, consisted of the Russian as well. They complimented one another's strengths and weaknesses, but undoubtedly, the old man was the leader. Without him, Abel would still be passed out drunk in Turkey.

So when he'd said to kill the man in black, it was the only choice he had.


	6. The Kidnapping, part 3

Abel recollected his thoughts before he glanced back down at the man in black below him. He was still fifty feet below, and his patience was beginning to wane just as the night itself was. It was slow going for the other man, as there were not many hand and foot holds.

Forty seven feet.

Forty six.

Abel lost his patience.

"Good morning," he hollered down at the other man. He, in response, just grunted.

"I've been watching you," he continued.

The man in black nodded. "You ah trying my patience," he said finally. "I need my focus. Leave me be."

"Apologies," Abel muttered after a drag of his pipe. The man grunted again. "However, do you not think you could be a bit faster, _monsieur_?"

"Vell," the man in black said, "you could zhrow a branch or rope, or make yourself useful if you vant me up zhere so much."

"I could," Abel agreed. "But it would not mean much considering it is my duty to murder you once you arrive up here."

"Vell, zhat puts a damper on our relationship. Zhen you vill haff to vait for me."

Forty three feet. Forty one.

"As a Frenchman, I could promise your safety."

"_Nein,_" the man in black replied. "All of zhe Frenchman I've known ah filzhy spies, no offense to you of course, but I cannot take chances."

"I'm going mad."

"Vould you like to change places!?" the man finally barked. "I'd be more zhan villing to accept _zhat _offer!"

Then, he was thirty nine feet below, and to Abel's dismay, resting.

"Oh, _mon dieu,_" he groaned. "Look here, I've got an extra length of rope we didn't need during our test climb. I'll just drop it down for you and you grab hold and I'll pull, and then-"

"_Nein_," the man in black interrupted. "You _might _pull, I vill give you zhat. You might also just _let go_, vhich vould do zhe trick if you're in a hurry to kill me."

"You can trust me. If I wasn't trustworthy, I would not have told you in the first place that I was planning to kill you, _non?"_

"Not buying it."

"Then there's nothing I can do to convince you?"

"Nothing that comes to mind, I'm afraid."

Abel, in a sudden thought, raised his right hand and called, "I swear on my love for Rene le Puertica you will reach the top ALIVE!"

The man in black was quiet and thoughtful at the outburst. "Somezhing in your tone says zhat you vould never do wrong by zhis love of yours. Alright zhen, toss me zhe rope."

Abel quickly tied it around a rock and threw it over. When he was certain the man in black had a good grip, he pulled. Within seconds, the man in black was lying on the ground, panting and sweating, before standing.

"_Danke,_" he mumbled and sank down on the rock.

"I will wait until you are ready to fight for your life," Abel said as he sat next to him. "I only believe in a noble death, where one has a chance for freedom from Death."

"Again, zhank you."

"But tell me, _monsieur, _why have you followed us?"

"You haff somezhing I vant."

Abel swallowed his next words thickly. "It's not for sale."

"Zhat doesn't matter. Zhat's your business."

"And yours?"

The man in black did not answer. Abel stood and began to pace, to warm his muscles and survey the terrain in which he would battle. There were many trees for dodging around, roots and rocks for tripping over, it was still dark, and to top it all off, there were the cliffs in the back, which was an excellent tactic to use when plotting one's death. Abel smiled. He could duel here. Even with the awkward Kukuri, which he had mastered, he could fight here.

Of course, if the man in question could fence. _Really _fence.

"I am ready," the man in black finally said at length.

"Then let us begin."

The man in black stood.

"You seem a decent fellow," Abel said. "I hate to kill you."

In response, the man in black smiled. "You seem a decent man. I hate to die. And yet, zhat is the vay of life."

"_Begin!"_

The man in black pulled out a longsword, in comparison to his short Kukuri.

Abel dueled with his _left _hand, as a sort of challenge. It warmed his heart to see that the other man was naturally left handed. It made the fight seem more fair, one's strength against one's weakness. He let the other man build up his courage, in order to get the best out of him, before retreating behind the nearest tree. He lashed out from behind it, and the man in black skittered away.

Abel was impressed with his agility and balance. Normally, a man his size would have fallen at least to one hand by now, and yet he remained standing, and continued fighting. However, the man was being backed into a group of boulders. Abel was eager to see how well he would fare when things got claustrophobic. Once his back hit the rocks, Abel lunged forward, nicked his wrist. First blood was his.

In Abel's short celebration, the man in black retreated away from the boulders, back out into the open. Abel followed quickly. Then, the man in black fought harder, faster, stronger. It was almost terrifying how suddenly it came about. Abel was only too delighted to retreat, unfamiliar with this style. It had mixes, but was mostly unidentifiable.

He kept retreating, and the man in black kept advancing, and Abel realized the cliffs were coming up at his back, but he used the time to think on the enemy's weaknesses.

Abel countered, at the right moment, with what should have been a flawless cut.

The man in black blocked it. He _blocked _it!

He tried any number of moves as the cliffs came ever nearer, but nothing worked!

The man kept attacking, and the cliffs were almost there.

"Marvelous, you are!" the Frenchman shouted, grinning maniacally.

"_Danke!_" the man cried back. "I have worked hard to become so!"

"Much better than I," Abel continued.

"Zhen vhy ah you smiling?"

"Because I know something you don't."

"And zhat is?"

"I am _not _left handed!" Abel exclaimed. He threw the massive Kukuri into his right hand, and the tables were suddenly, quickly, turned. The man in black was nicked again, now on his right shoulder and left arm, but the wounds were not grave. Whenever he was close to being cornered, he would duck under Abel back out into open space.

"_Wunderbar!_" he cried.

"It has not been easy, I will confess!" Abel smirked, though a bit winded at this point. "But pray, tell me why now it is that _you _wear that mischievous grin?!"

"Ha, the question has been popped! _Mein hure, _I am not left handed either!"

And he once again had the upper hand. Abel was retreating.

"Who _are _you!?" he screamed in frustration and amazement.

"No one of importance. Just another lover of zhe blade!"

"I _must _know!"

"Get used to disappointment!"

With a final flick of his sword, Abel's Kukuri flew out of his hand, and landed blade first into the soft dirt some distance away. The smile now gone, he turned around, fell to his knees, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.

"Please," he whispered, without the slightest tremble in his voice. "Do it quickly."

The man in black chuckled. "_Mögen meine Hände fallen von meinen Handgelenken, bevor ich zu töten einen Künstler wie Sie selbst,_" he muttered, blade gently caressing Abel's cheeks before being tossed away. "I would sooner mutilate zhe great da Vinci's work. But I cannot haff you following me now, can I?" He snatched up a rock from a little ways away. "Please understand I hold you in zhe highest respect, _mein freund_."

He clubbed Abel on the head, and the man fell unconscious. Quickly, he was tied up, and then the man in black picked up his sword, then picked up the old man's trail, and raced after him silently, like a predator...

* * *

><p>"<em>Абель! Он бил Авеля!<em>" Misha cried sadly, not sure he wanted to believe it. Abel was the only other person who really, truly liked him, and now, surely, he was dead, by the hands of this masked vigilante.

Sure enough, when the old man looked, he saw the man in black still some distance aways, but certainly gaining.

"Inconcievable!" he exploded.

Misha fought the tears at the corners of his eyes. He wanted to believe that it was 'inconceivable', but it couldn't be. He was no fool. He could think for himself. But he would hardly ever think aloud, not with the old man around. He hated it when he wasn't the only one doing the thinking.

"Untie her feet!" the old man commanded. He took her himself once the task was done, and said, "Catch up quickly, Misha!"

"_Да_," he muttered, secretly anxious about being left alone. He watched as the figure hurried up the mountain, snatched up a large rock, and waited to crush his head like a sparrow's egg...

* * *

><p><em><strong>Misha<strong>_

It wasn't that he couldn't fight for himself. Misha was a peacemaker. He hated to fight. Anything he tried to fight would end up with broken bones, and then _he _was the bad guy because he hurt somebody, when in reality it was _they _who threw the first blow.

His father had died some time ago; it was only he and his sisters, so naturally, he wasn't taught to fight back. However, his eldest younger sister, named after the Canadian Princess Zhana, had had enough of her big brother getting picked on. She took it upon herself to teach him how to fight. She would have him crush boulders with his strength, throw sacks of grain nearly a mile away, and lift the entire family using just his back.

But he did not use the skills she taught him. Zhana was furious.

"Do not mind it," he lied. "I can go on being picked on-"

"_No_," she would interrupt. "You are big strong man, Misha," (he was only twelve at the time.), "and you will show them who is boss. They pick on you, you be gentle at first, as warning. If they do not stop, smack them into next year."

"I don't want to hurt anybody."

She softens at this. "I know. But you must defend yourself. You cannot let them do this to you, big brother. It is not right."

So he trained him more, this time, using herself. She came out with many broken bones and bruises, and Misha would apologize profusely, and would be _certain _he would never fight again, but once Zhana was well, she would push him right back into it. This process went over for the next ten years, until their mother died, and Zhana and Misha were all they had left. They needed money.

So, Misha went into fighting. It was a great way to spend blizzardy nights in Russia at the time, and was a popular sport among the men. Misha hated it, but it put bear and bread on the table for his sisters. At first, he was the main attraction. but people grew bored of him winning every fight thrown at him.

He began losing money, the less people that came. So he had to travel, despite his sister's protests, but they had to eat.

But wherever he went, he was not greeted with wondrous applause, but cries or anger and boos and grunts and name calling. He was simply too tough for the rest of the world to handle.

He had to take his sisters into hiding and hunt for them, but eventually, they learned to take care of themselves. They had to _force _him to go away, because they could not go anywhere or be with anyone without him shadowing them. It was just in his protective nature.

They went off, got married, started families. And Misha was left alone.

He traveled the world fighting, still hating it all the while, but he had to eat somehow, and didn't want to be alone. It was his version of Hell, being alone. He could bear fighting if it would keep him from being alone.

Then, when he was thirty, there was no one left who hadn't heard of the bear of a man, though they knew not his name. They just knew he was as tall as two full grown men, and he was a force to be reckoned with.

They all left him alone.

He sat down, alone, in Rosalba, not knowing what to do with himself. That was how Grey Mann, the old man, found him. He flattered him, promised to never leave him alone. They needed each other, he'd said to Misha. Whatever Grey said had to be done, and if that included crushing the man in black's head, so be it.

* * *

><p>But he would not ambush him, as he had originally planned. That was the way of the coward, and Misha was no coward. Zhana had always taught him to follow the rules. He stepped from hiding when the man in black was close enough and threw the rock.<p>

It missed by two inches, then crashed on the rock a foot away. When he looked at Misha, confused, he grunted, "Was warning. Did not have to miss."

"I believe you. Zhat vas a little close for comfort."

They faced each other awkwardly, until the man in black asked, "Vhat happens now?"

"Now, I must crush you like leetle baby man." Misha told him honestly. "But I do it fair, and so do you. No tricks, no weapons. Just strength only."

The man in black frowned. "So essentially, vhat you ah saying is zhat you vill put down your rocks, I vill put down my sword, and ve vill kill each other like civilized people?"

"Yes, unless you would rather I kill you now," Misha rumbled, and he raised the rock to throw.

Hurriedly, the man in black stuttered, "Ah, n-nein, I vill fight you myself," and he removed his sword and scabbard. "Alzhough, frankly, zhe odds are in your favor at zhis sport."

"If I could help it, I would not have it," Misha replied. "I would rather be small like you."

"I'm not blaming you for your form, zhat cannot be helped," he replied.

"Let us move," the Russian said, and he dropped his rock and spread his arms wide, just as Zhana had taught him. He almost felt bad getting ready to murder this small man, but if he had killed Abel, then perhaps he deserved it. Abel was the only friend he had. Still, the man didn't cry or beg for his life. Perhaps he was good after all.

"Why do you wear mask?" he asked.

"I zhink everyvone vill in zhe future," the man in black replied. "Zhey ah terribly comfortable."

They faced each other for a moment more, and then the man in black charged him, but Misha's hands were on him in an instant. And he lifted, and squeezed, and threw the remains of the once living man away into a nearby crevice.

At least, that was Misha's plan. What really happened was this: Misha lifted.

And squeezed.

And the man in black slipped free.

Although he was surprised, Misha did not let it show. "You are quick," he complimented his opponent.

"_Danke_," he said.

Then they came together again, and Misha took him up and swung his head into a nearby boulder, and then threw the remains of the once living man into a nearby crevice.

Well, that's what he _wanted _to happen, but it did not. Misha never even got to grab him. The smaller man just twisted around him, slipped free. Misha began to fully realize just how rusty he was when it came to one-on-one fighting. He'd spent much of his later days fighting large groups, instead of just one man, and the lack of contact had him reeling.

By the time he'd dug up his old fighting style, the man in black was on his back, and had wrapped his arms thoroughly around his throat.

Misha reached back, trying to get the offending man off of him, but he was in such a position that he could not get a grasp on him, and the lack of air wasn't helping at all either. He slammed his back against several rocks to try and loosen the man's grip, but each charge only made the man in black grip his neck harder with his arms.

He fell to his knees, gasping at nothing, not grabbing anything. This was it. This was how he would die.

Just when he was losing consciousness, and was certain he would die, the man in black suddenly let go. Misha slumped to the ground, unconscious. He lay sprawled, faintly breathing, but certainly alive.

The man in black sighed, satisfied that the giant man would remain down for a long time, long enough for him to complete his quest.

"Two down, vone to go," he muttered as he started back up the mountain path.


	7. The OTHER Kidnapping, part 1

Grey Mann was waiting for him.

He'd set out a small picnic blanket, and had set two wine goblets on the cloth, which was on a tree stump. It improvised as a small table of sorts. Also on the blanket were cheeses and apples, and a leather wine holder. Grey always had these things on hand.

It was also a lovely sight, close to the cliffs, but not uncomfortably so, and had a splendid view all the way back to Rosalba Strait.

And, against Theodora's pale throat, he held a long, sharp knife. She was blindfolded and gagged, sitting next to Mann quietly, though she shook.

"Greetings," Grey Mann called to the man in black.

He stopped his progression to survey the situation.

"You've bested my Russian," Mann said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I haff."

"And now, it is just you and me, and the Princess."

"It is," the man in black agreed. He began to proceed again, but stopped short when the old man pressed his knife harder against Theodora's throat, drawing the smallest nick of blood.

"Come forward if her death is your mission," Mann said.

The man in black did not move.

"As I thought," the old man said. "Now, I understand what your intents are, and I want you to understand that I hate you for it. I kidnapped her first, and for you to steal her from me is a low, low road to take."

"Let me explain," the man in black said, not budging an inch.

"There is nothing that I don't already know that you could tell me. I was not nourished mentally from books as most children were, but I have the wits of a man who lived on the streets ridiculed and mocked for his frailty. I have a certain way about me in predicting the future based on logical thought and wisdom. Therefore, I assume you are _also _a kidnapper."

"Not like you," the man in black retorted. "_Nozhing _like you."

"Listen, sir, I have been tasked with certain instructions in dealing with this Princess. If I do it properly, I will have work for the rest of my life. They do not include a ransom of any kind, sir. They include death. What I am trying to tell you is that your explanations are meaningless. There is nothing you can exchange with me. You wish to keep her alive, I wish to kill her just a little ways more North of here very, very soon."

"Surely, you haff not zhought zhat perhaps I haff gone zhrough great personal sacrifice, torture, und bitter pain to find zhis voman, und zhat if I fail now, I may- or, may not- get a trifle angry. And if she stops breathing in the very near future, perhaps you will suffer the same fate."

"I have no doubt that you could, and would kill me. Anyone who can best Abel and Misha would have no trouble with a little old man like me. But if you did that, then neither of us would get what we want. I would lose my life, you would lose your Princess."

"Zhen ve ah at an impasse," the man in black stated.

"Indeed. I cannot beat you physically, you cannot beat me mentally."

"Do you bluff?"

"There are words not yet created to describe how intelligent I am. My cunningness has yet to be beaten."

"Should today be your day of defeat zhen?" the man in black smirked. "If you ah so smart as you claim to be, zhen I challenge you to a battle of wits.

"For the Princess?"

"Yes. For the Princess."

Grey had to smile.

"To the death?"

"Correct."

"I accept. Come closer."

"Pour zhe vwine," said the man in black.

Mann topped off the goblets with the deep red drink, and the man in black took his place at the other side of the "table". Then, he procured, from his dark clothing, a small packet, and handed it to Grey. "Smell, but do not touch."

He followed the instructions. "I smell nothing."

"It is iocane powder. It has no smell, taste, and dissolves immediately into any kind of liquid. It is also the deadliest poison the world knows of. Now, vould you kindly hand me zhe goblets?"

"My knife does not leave her throat," Mann stated. "Take them yourself."

So he took the goblets, and turned away, iocane powder in his hand. Grey laughed in anticipation. What a challenge this would be!

The man in black set the goblets back on the table once he had poured the powder into one of the cups. True to his word, it was impossible to tell which cup held the poison. He set the empty packet next to the cheese.

"Your guess. Vhere is zhe poison?"

"It doesn't take long for a genius such as myself to deduce where the poison is. However, I never guess. I think rationally, logically, and make a decision based on my thoughts."

"Just know zhat ve haff started. It ends vhen you decide und ve drink, and see who is right and who is dead. Ve swallow at zhe same time."

"But first, I must ask aloud, though I expect no answer, are you the kind of man who would put the poison in his own glass, or that of his enemy? I must guess using what I know so far of you, sir."

"Do not stall. I don't haff zhe patience."

They exchanged in this conversation of stalling for nearly five minutes. Even the Princess rolled her eyes at this, though neither of them could see.

Suddenly, Grey Mann's countenance changed to pure confusion, and he pointed behind the man in black. "Dear, God, what's that!?"

The man in black folded his arms, frowning. "I'm not an idiot. As much as you vould like to believe zhat, zhat is zhe oldest trick in zhe book. I vill not turn around."

Grey frowned as well. "Fine then. I've made my decision anyways. Give me your cup; I will drink from that."

So they exchanged glasses, took them up and drank simultaneously.

"You haff failed," the man in black laughed quietly.

And Mann fell over once the powder took effect, and died. The man in black stepped over the corpse after taking up a slice of cheese, and ripped the gag and blindfold from Theodora's face.

At first, she was surprised, then glanced back up at the man in black. "Well done," she whispered.

The man in black did not reply, only untying her bonds and yanking her to her feet, and started to pull her along.

"So your cup was poisoned," she muttered.

"Ah, not exactly. Zhey vere both poisoned. I've spent zhe last two years building an immunity to iocane powder."

Suddenly, Theodora was very, very afraid of this new man. If he could defend himself from poison, what else was he immune to? "Who… _are _you?" she asked, terrified.

"Certainly, not vone to be trifled vith. Zhat's all you need to know, _frauline_."

His voice… Where had she heard his voice?

"You really ought to release me," she said at length. "He will find you, you know."

"'He', your Highness?"

"Prince Rhyfel," Theodora clarified. "He is the best hunter in the known world. He will find you."

"You zhink zhat your love vill save you?"

"I never said I loved him, but yes, he _will _save me."

"You do not love your husband-to-be? Vell now, looks like I haff an honest woman. Quite rare, zhese days."

"We don't lie to each other. He knows I don't love him. I'm not saying I'm not _capable _of love, just that I do not love _him_."

"I don't believe you."

"I have loved more strongly and faithfully than a lowly killer such as yourself could even _dream _of!" she spat.

He slapped her. "Do not lie to me! Vhere I come from, women are strongly reprimanded for lying!"

"I'm not ly-" She saw his hand rise a second time, and bit her tongue to keep from speaking again. Slapping was far from pleasant.

They ran for hours, and hours, until the first light of dawn graced them. Then, they saw the Armada. They were running along a ravine when they stopped to rest, and the man in black pointed. "Zhere's your lover boy. He's brought company, it seems."

She glared at the armada herself. Every ship must have been there, all just searching for her. "I can guarantee your safety if you release me now."

"_Nein_."

And they continued to run. Again. On the side of the ravine, they ran quickly.

"Alzhough, to be honest, I did not expect quite so many ships. How could you not love him after all of zhis effort?"

"I loved once," Theodora mentioned. "It ended horribly. He was poor, and it was his end."

"Oh, I'm sure it vas _heartbreaking _to lose a poor boy," the man in black sarcastically said.

"Don't you _dare!" _Theodora exclaimed. "_I DIED THAT DAY!_"

She shoved him down the Ravine with all of her might. For a moment, he only teetered on the edge precariously, but then he toppled. And he fell. The slope was too steep to stop his descent at all, and so he fell, down, down.

"And-and you can die too, for all I care!" Theodora screamed after him once he reached the bottom.

The voice at the bottom of the ravine changed from low and coarse, to warm and familiar.

"As… you… vish."

Theodora whirled around, amazed, bewildered, speechless. staring at the source of the sound. The man in black removed his now broken mask.

"Oh, damn it, Bernhard," she whispered, "it's a dream."

Without hesitation, she threw herself after him, trying not to tumble as he did, but it was still too steep, and she fell over and rolled. Down, down, crashing and toppling and whirling, torn, beaten, bedraggled, cartwheeling towards her beloved.

She fell quietly, without complaint, until she reached the bottom, and within a moment, Bernhard was upon her, embracing and kissing with all of his pent up passion, laying above her and taking her breath, all of that breath from three years prior, when he'd first left her. He _needed _Theodora, needed this love, needed it more than life itself, if he could be dead and have this love, that would be fine. If he had to be in Hell to have this love, that would work for him too.

Theodora agreed, though not all entirely, though that will make sense later in this story.

* * *

><p>"I must examine the tops of the Cliffs of Australia," Prince Rhyfel said.<p>

From behind him, Count Anghenfil said, "Done."

"Send half of my troops south, the other, north. Tell them to meet by twilight near the Fire Swamp."

The troops split at the first sign of the command. Once the Prince reached the tops of the cliffs, riding atop his white steeds, which he took immense pride in, he dismounted quickly, observing the terrain by where he'd observed that the thieves of his bride had climbed to.

There were signs of a struggle, and it took Rhyfel several minutes to figure that a fencing match had taken place, and that they were both clearly masters, judging by their stride lengths, the quickness of the foot feints. He also found the outline of where a body had once been, but it was gone now. Therefore, due to the lack of blood, he assumed that this person had not been killed, and had manage to escape.

"Somebody fought good here," he said to Anghenfil. "The victor ran off towards the Princess, wherever she was heading. This way!"

"Should we follow 'em both?" Anghenfil asked.

"The one who ran off doesn't matter," Rhyfel replied. "We're after the Princess, not some nilly swordsman! This was all an elaborate trap by Canada, and so must be taken into the highest accord of importance!"

"So, it's a trap?"

"I think everything's a trap, Anghenfil. That's why I'm still alive!"

After that, he was back aboard his steeds and galloping towards the direction the Princess had taken. Then, he reached the mountain path where a hand fight had taken place. He didn't dismount his horses this time; everything was clear.

"There was a giant here, but he was beaten. You can tell by the large imprint of his body in the dirt below. But whoever he was, he's gone now, rather obviously so. And the footsteps of a woman! The Princess is alive!"

Next, they were at the battle of wits. Grey Mann's corpse was still present.

"Our first casualty!" Rhyfel screamed. "Man down! Man down!"

"He ain't ours, Rhyfel," Anghenfil stated.

"Oh."

Then, he sniffed the wine goblet.

"Iocane," he grumbled. "It has to be. Nothing else could have killed this man and left behind no trace."

At this point forward, he ran by foot, following the other footsteps that were left, that would lead him to his bride.

It was two hours after dawn by the time they'd all reached the ravine.

"Two bodies fell down here and didn't come back up."

"So you mean..?" Count Anghenfil breathed, almost shaking at the thought.

"Yup. They went in the Fire Swamp."

"Then we have him, nothin' to worry 'bout."

"So long as he comes out the other end…" Prince Rhyfel grinned in that way he only did just before the kill.


End file.
